


strike the match

by scienceblues



Series: when the fire dies [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Past Lives, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon-Typical Violence, Demon Hanzo Shimada, M/M, Van Helsing McCree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 09:50:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13679265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scienceblues/pseuds/scienceblues
Summary: McCree gains a reputation in Blackwatch for being old-fashioned, drawn to technology and fashion long made obsolete. He tries not to think too hard about whether that’s a preference of his own, or something that comes from the other Jesse.Soulmates/past lives AU from a prompts list!





	strike the match

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a few writing prompts posts about two weeks ago, one of which was different soulmate AUs, and realized I'd have time to write something before Valentine's Day. So here this is! It's entirely self-indulgent and the concept (like most other soulmate AUs) is kind of goofy, but whatever. I wanted to finish something for V-day, and I did, so!
> 
> The prompts I used were a combination of “your soulmate is the only person you remember from your past life” and “you dream your soulmate, but very basically (such as their silhouette or the view of their back)” from [this post](http://sixxon.tumblr.com/post/142197708620/soulmate-au-masterlist) \- in this case, the soulmate you see in dreams can't talk. Somehow the past lives bit turned into a Halloween fic instead of V-day fic, and it kind of turned into half character study and half soulmates fic, but you know what, at least I finished the thing.
> 
> Partially beta'ed by middlecyclone! Any remaining errors are my fault for not finishing writing in time for her to look it all over lmao.

The dreams have always been there, in some form.

When Jesse first becomes aware that his dreams are uncannily similar from night to night, there isn’t much to them. The biting chill of a cold night, offset by the warmth of the fire in front of him. Simple enough that it might’ve been a riff on any one of his nights camping in the backyard, his mom teaching him how to pitch the tent and helping where his chubby child’s fingers can’t yet manage the ropes.

But it’s definitely wood fueling the fire in his head every night. There isn’t nearly enough wood within a hundred miles of their tiny house to build a fire that size.

Details fill in, later – the revolver comes early on, resting either in a holster at his hip or on the ground at his side. It scares him, at first, but by the time he leaves home and has a shitty pistol shoved into his hand, he’s used enough to its presence while asleep that he doesn’t mind holding it so much while awake.

A few years later, Blackwatch picks him up and starts training him on different weapons. Jesse does well with most, after handling all kinds in Deadlock, though most of it is due to the care he takes to perform his best. He’s not sure yet if his new commander is the type to change his mind, and Jesse doesn’t want to wind up in prison when he’s got this shot in front of him.

But he’s most comfortable with the revolver. When Reyes asks for his input on his field weapon, Jesse hesitates only briefly before sketching out the gun from his dreams.

Reyes submits the design for production, and a few months later Jesse has a custom revolver in his hands.

 

* * *

 

He gains a reputation in Blackwatch for being old-fashioned, drawn to technology and fashion long made obsolete. He tries not to think too hard about whether that’s a preference of his own, or something that comes from the other Jesse.

At least he can comfort himself with having simpler tastes than the overly showy, buckle-laden leather he sees on himself nightly. Well-made, but too fussy. He doesn’t mind reflecting some aspects of his counterpart, as is the nature of these things, but too many similarities to a dead man leaves him on edge.

His second birthday in Blackwatch, Reyes hands him a thick square package in the middle of the personnel lounge. “You can wear this one in the field, if you want,” he says, standing over McCree while he opens it.

Black fabric pools into his lap as he unfolds it. It isn’t quite as heavy as the one he inherited from his mother – it must be a more lightweight blend – but the shape is familiar, and the quality is excellent.

“Should be sturdier than that tattered old thing you wear everywhere, so it’s not falling apart on ops,” Reyes explains. “Let me know if those stitches don’t hold up. That’s what I used on my gear, but I’m not sure how it’ll hold in that material with the amount of wear it’ll have.”

McCree, who was opening his mouth to protest that he mends his serape as best he can, abruptly clicks his jaw closed. After a moment of staring down at the fabric in his hands, he finally manages a weak, “You _made_ this, boss?”

Reyes grunts noncommittally and sits down on the other end of the misshapen couch. “You know fabric comes like that, right? Not much to sew it all together. Hell, I could probably show you how to make more, if you wanted.”

Mending small holes in fabric is about the extent of McCree’s sewing skills, and he suspects Reyes is underselling the effort that went into the gift, but nobody’s offered to teach him something in a long time. “Sure thing, boss.”

 

* * *

 

Hanamura is a shitshow.

Month of infiltration work invested in seeding Blackwatch operatives throughout the pre-Crisis district, and all of it’s undone when the shakeup they’re hoping for doesn’t appear how they expected. Instead of a power play between two opposing forces torn on which direction to take their business interests in, it’s just – a horribly personal slaughter.

McCree has to sit across from the results on the jet to the nearest Watchpoint. Reyes is on the comm towards the front of the plane, detailing how much he wants this guy alive to be able to smoke out even more distant connections to the empire, but McCree’s too focused on trying to keep his lunch down to pay too much attention.

Debrief takes forever, but by the time he’s released, there’s still no word over whether their unlikely survivor is still hanging on or has lost the seemingly-inevitable battle. McCree just wants to know so he can leave the plane ride behind him. With no desire for a late-night dinner, he heads straight to bed and only drops off after nearly an hour of deep breathing exercises.

When he finally succeeds, he finds his lonely vigil changed.

He always becomes aware of the fire first, and then his surroundings – but the stillness of the night isn’t broken by the sounds of what he now knows to be a forest of some kind. Relief at the crisp, clean scent of the air pushes aside other concerns for a minute, until the lack of other noise registers. McCree looks up from the fire, frowning at the continued silence, and then sees –

Eyes, glowing unnaturally white from a figure sitting across the fire from him.

McCree’s breath catches in his throat, but the holster at his hip doesn’t carry its usual weight tonight. Figures it wouldn’t be, when he’s already shaken from earlier and needs the reassurance Peacekeeper lends him. The figure doesn’t move towards him, though, despite there being no way it doesn’t see him where he sits.

“Hello?”

He wants to cringe even as it leaves his mouth, quieter and reedier than he meant for it to sound, betraying the shock of no longer being the only one there.

The head tilts to the slide, just slightly, but otherwise the being doesn’t move.

Well, hell, it’s just a dream, after all. McCree still has to gather his courage, but he stands from the log serving as his seat and begins making his way towards the other side of the fire.

Halting just a few feet away, McCree takes in the form in front of him, struggling to make out distinct features in the weak light. “Who are you?”

There’s no response. McCree moves forward again, reaching out a hand to touch, and it glows orange in the firelight before it makes contact, and –

He wakes up with nothing but chilled fingers on his left hand.

 

* * *

 

The thing is, McCree _isn’t_ stupid. He might act the part – more so when he came to Blackwatch, but less now that it’s clear Reyes values clever subordinates – but he’s heard what it means to have recurring dreams with someone else in them, even if his mother was tight-lipped about the subject. It would certainly explain why he always wound up by the same campfire ever since he started dreaming.

He’s just never heard of people who dreamed of glowing, maybe-not-humans as their soulmate.

McCree decides to stop worrying about it in favor of assisting Reyes with the increased surveillance material from their last op. There’s certainly plenty to do, breaking down existing plans and creating others, waiting to see if they’ll be able to get the intel they need from the man down in medical.

His plan works well at keeping him busy, except for the fact that the figure is there every time he finds his way back to bed to fit in a few hours’ rest. Ignoring it doesn’t seem to work, nor does trying to walk away from the fire. McCree can only get maybe half a mile out from the camp, stumbling over tree roots in the dark of the forest, before he wakes up. If he’s lucky to fall back asleep after that, he starts right back at the fire again.

He doesn’t let it affect his work, other than adding to the growing bags under his eyes. But after a week and a half of running himself to death in his dreams, McCree knows he has to find out what he can in case his visitor doesn’t leave anytime soon.

The surveillance room is mostly empty after midnight, with only a few techs buried in their work halfway across the room at their screens. Considering the topic, McCree only chances speaking when he sees they’ve all got bulky headphones over their ears.

“Can I ask you a personal question, boss?”

Next to him, Reyes slides his eyes sideways to appraise him. After a minute, he says, “Well, you can _ask_.”

“Do you, uh. You get dreams?”

Reyes lets out a snorting laugh. “Jesus, kid, you weren’t kidding. Talk about personal.”

“Mine are weird lately, is all,” McCree says, dropping his gaze to the tablet in his hands. “And nobody here really talks about theirs that much, so I don’t know if sometimes they do that or if mine are just fucked up.”

Reyes’ hand claps down on McCree’s shoulder. “Come to me when your soulmate’s got black eyes and looks paler than death. Then we can compare fucked up dreams.” At McCree’s wide-eyed look, he sighs and says, “He looks normal awake, so yeah, _sometimes they do that_ sounds about right.”

Later that night, McCree watches the steady motion of gray hands fletching arrows for hours without fleeing.

 

* * *

 

The drugs they give to whoever’s unlucky enough to end up in medical are apparently strong enough to ward off the dreams. McCree spends a few days after surgery in a black void, and while it already feels alien to be away from his recent companion for so long, he’s just glad he isn’t having nightmares. He can barely remember anything about the op that took his arm; he doesn’t need his brain filling in scenarios for him.

His days go easier when Fareeha or Genji are visiting, helping to keep his mind off the dull ache radiating from his shoulder down as far as his arm goes anymore. Genji brings cards, but once it becomes apparent that McCree will need to relearn how to play one-handed, Fareeha digs out her old set of checkers as a substitute. That, at least, he can manage.

The first night that the dreams return, McCree refuses to look down, afraid of what he’ll find. He keeps his gaze fixed on the fire until he can see orange at the edges of his vision even when he blinks.

He doesn’t notice his companion until he feels pressure on his left hand – _feels_ it. McCree looks down in shock and sees a gray hand resting on his, whole and human.

He swallows. “It ain’t gonna stay forever, is it.”

A squeeze of his hand, and the figure shakes his head. They’ve never touched before, other than McCree’s aborted attempt at their first meeting, but it isn’t as off-putting as McCree feared. The skin emits a dull warmth despite the perpetual chill of the night air; even if his touch felt totally alien, it would be welcome solely for the relief of feeling something other than the phantom pain that lurks below the painkillers he’s being kept on.

In his dreams, his arm remains through the healing process until he gets fitted with a lightweight, temporary prosthetic to keep his muscles accustomed to moving weight around. He gets a few nights’ grace period before one night he becomes aware of how heavy his left arm is.

This time, the thought of looking at it doesn’t fill him with dread.

McCree takes a breath and looks at where his arm once was. The prosthetic is – kind of neat, actually. The elbow’s a bit too bulky for his tastes, as used as he is to the sleek lines of Blackwatch gear, but the orange light emanating from underneath the protective layer is useful in a forest this dark.

He looks across the way and catches those white eyes steadily watching him. Lifting the prosthetic in a wave, McCree says, “Now we both glow!”

In the firelight, McCree catches a glimpse of his soulmate’s head ducked in quiet laughter and regrets ever doubting that he belongs there.

 

* * *

 

For long stretches at a time after Blackwatch goes up in flames, the only time McCree sees another living soul is at night.

Trips into cities become a necessity, occasionally – sometimes to shake one of the bounty hunters trailing him, sometimes just to keep himself from losing it amid the countless hours spent holed up alone in an abandoned Blackwatch safehouse. He’s not sure if he prefers to think there were survivors from his squad, or whether he’d rather that nobody alive knows the locations of the safehouses he claims for his own use.

To make matters worse, he sleeps poorly, too paranoid sometimes to get uninterrupted sleep. McCree knows the silent companion in his dreams is just an echo of a long-dead man, soulmate to the memory of his past self. But left alone as he is, he’ll take all the company he can get.

They’re touching more often than not in his dreams, now, often drifting off leaning against each other’s sides. The muted warmth that comes off his soulmate is better than the alternative, when he hasn’t seen another person for months. Even if he knows it isn’t real, he lets himself lean back into a strong chest, gray arms loosely enveloping him as they sit in front of the fire.

“Wish I coulda met you for real,” McCree murmurs. “Don’t think I’m likely to, now.”

The arms tighten slightly around him as he continues staring into the fire, too tired to even clean his gun as he usually does.

He really does expect his bounty to get the better of him at some point. He has his fair share of close run-ins and injuries, barely getting himself to the next hiding spot to patch himself up. There’s a counter on how many times he can manage to pull some of the tricks he does, and it seems sometimes like he’s used up more than his fair share of lucky breaks.

When the Recall comes in on the comm he kept powered up at all times – just in case – McCree once again grabs the chance for a better life than the one he’s living without a second thought.

 

* * *

 

The first thing McCree does when he arrives in Gibraltar after Winston officially welcomes him is sleep, uninterrupted, for a solid twelve hours. Having a door that bolts shut and an AI in charge of the security perimeter does the trick and lets his guard down enough to finally, _finally_ rest.

Once he’s feeling more human and less like a hermit, he makes his rounds greeting those he missed with his late arrival time the night before. Lena mentions over food – breakfast for him, dinner for her – that Fareeha will be there as soon as she works out the changes in her contract with Helix, and Torbjörn has to wrap up some family matters before he can leave for the base, but Reinhardt and Genji and a load of new recruits have already arrived.

McCree perks up at the mention of Genji – he hadn’t heard if he’d been anywhere near Zurich when it blew, and long years wondering dissolve into immediate relief. Lena laughs at the look on his face that must be visible. “He’s so hard to find around here, though! Too many high-up places, and the dust doesn’t seem to bother him like it does most of us!”

Bullheaded as he is, McCree takes this as an invitation to go track him down after he finishes his meal. He never spent more than a few months cumulatively at this Watchpoint, but the layout is similar enough to others that the fourth roof he checks yields who he was looking for.

Unfortunately, it looks like he’s interrupting something, judging by the small cluster of seated figures. He takes a step back towards the stairs, an apology on his lips, when Genji turns around and spots him. Suddenly he has a cyborg rushing at him, and McCree has to be careful to not get bowled over, by either the weight of so much metal or the sound of Genji laughing so openly.

“Ha, I heard you got in late, but I didn’t think you would take so long to come say hello!” Genji holds him at arm’s length and looks him up and down. “You look terrible.”

“I _literally_ woke up an hour ago, you dick. Cut me some slack,” McCree grumbles, keeping his voice low so he doesn’t scare off the newcomers behind Genji.

A pleasant chuckle sounds, closer than where McCree first saw the others sitting. Genji steps to the side, and McCree sees they’ve been joined by a floating omnic, politely covering part of his faceplate with his hand to hide his quiet laughter, and –

Standing next to the omnic is his soulmate.

Unmistakably him, but also unmistakably human; his skin is no longer gray, and his eyes are a steady, warm _brown_ , but after ten years of seeing him nightly, McCree knows that face by heart. He even wears his hair in the same little ponytail bound high atop his head, and McCree’s heart surges with fondness at the sight.

Genji’s words filter in slowly through the realization that he is _not_ prepared to have this meeting right here, right now, with the dregs of isolation still clinging to him. “– arrived a little more than a week ago.” The omnic, whose name McCree’s going to have to get again later, waves hello. McCree tips his hat in return, and Genji continues turning to the other man, “And Hanzo was not too far behind us! Fortunately he didn’t actually beat us here, since I didn’t tell anyone I was bringing new recruits.”

Hanzo sticks out a hand, and McCree takes it for a brief shake. The clasp of his hand is at once familiar and newly exhilarating, with the same warmth he’s always felt. “The outlaw Jesse McCree,” Hanzo says, some amusement in his voice. It’s deep and raspy and _so_ much nicer than McCree ever imagined. “Your wanted posters do not do you justice.”

McCree ducks his head a bit and looks up from under the brim of his hat. “New recruits, huh? Hope that means I got a shot at a better second impression than first. Those posters are _terrible_.”

Hanzo’s eyes cut to Genji, who’s gone suspiciously still. “In that case, you may want to avoid the lounge by the kitchen.”

“Well, I think that means I gotta go have a look,” McCree says with a grin. “Care to show me? Haven’t been here in years, so you might know your way around better’n I do at this point.”

It’s a blatant lie, considering he just came from the kitchen, but Hanzo accepts it and joins him in walking towards the stairs. The setting sun is angling into McCree’s eyes, even with his hat, and he squints and adjusts it before starting his descent.

He won’t be sleeping for a while yet, but it seems like he’ll be with Hanzo at their normal time of night anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Gentle concrit appreciated!
> 
> Some notes that didn't make it in the fic:  
> -Most people get more variation in their dreams (different scenes, different lives, etc.) than McCree does.  
> -Part of it is that Van Helsing McCree spent so much time on the road that it is genuinely representative of that life, and the other part of why they're always in that spot is for uhhh sad reasons.  
> -It's also a bit unusual that his soulmate didn't show up in the dreams earlier on than he does, which is why it took him so long to figure that out.  
> -Hanzo does get more varied dreams like most people do, so to some extent he's seen more of McCree than McCree's seen of him.


End file.
